


Bee Bread for Breakfast

by ironed_orchid



Category: The City of Dreaming Books - Walter Moers
Genre: Gen, Zamonia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironed_orchid/pseuds/ironed_orchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Optimus Yarnspinner meets Claudio Harpstick, he leaves the café to return to his hotel. This story picks up where he leaves, and shows the routines of the café staff, and introduces us to the few customers they have between midnight and 7am.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bee Bread for Breakfast

Kale Ednus, night manager at The Orm, shook his head sadly as he watched the Lindworm leave. The dinosaur was happily clutching the business cards that Claudio Harpstick had pressed upon him. Kale had overheard enough of their conversation to know that the Lindworm was in trouble. But Kale had also lived in Bookholm long enough to know that getting involved with Pfistmel Smyke was invariably bad for the health, so, despite his misgivings, he kept his thoughts to himself and silently cleared their table.

He liked working the late shift. By this time, even the rowdiest poets and their acolytes had left or had drunk themselves into a stupor. Three such poets, including the dwarf whose shrill intonations had dominated the room mere hours ago, were passed out on the sofa, their heads lolling on one another’s shoulders. 

On the sofa by the windows, a Nocturnomath reclined, holding her book open above her face. She had three other volumes on her table, each open at a particular page. Also on the table was a half full bottle of printers ink wine, and Kale knew that if she wanted anything, she would ask. 

Over by the fire, a young demidwarf was quietly repeating the first stanza of Hoskulk Crabwise’s “For the Vulpheads” over and over , changing the stress on the syllables each time as if trying to find the best way to express the short, terse lines. Another hopeful who wanted to be a Master Reader, Kale supposed. He had a pleasant enough voice, but he would need to practice his projection if he wanted to get noticed in this town. At this time of night, however, Kale appreciated that the demidwarf was keeping the volume low. 

Kale didn’t think much of the choice of poem. He knew most young male Zamonians, regardless of species, went through a Crabwisean phase. It was why so many of them felt that they had to stay up all night drinking, and young poets who stayed out all night drinking were what kept many of the Bookholmian coffee shops in bread and butter. So Kale knew better to criticise Crabwise while at The Orm. Only his closest friends knew that Kale despised the so called “thump” poets, and would rather read Honj Steak or Byerely Schleps Yesh. 

Speaking of bread and butter, he had better check on the bakers. They were nearly out of rye loaf for the very popular bee bread, and the early morning crowd would soon be demanding their poet’s ringlets and booklings. Lifting his tray of dirty dishes in both hands, he nodded at Nayina the night barista, who was taking advantage of the lull to sit the counter and read one of the many books in the popular Gamete Of Horns series, and pushed through the thick double doors into the kitchen. 

If the pre-dawn hours were the quietest time on the café floor, they were the busiest for the bakers. The kitchen was full of light and heat, and was suffused with the warm, yeasty smell of bread baking, overlaid with the scents of honey, apples, cinnamon, and other, more subtle, spices. Kale inhaled deeply, and blinked several times in quick succession, as he adjusted to the brightness and bustle. Over on the counter, the apprentice bakers were arranging poet’s ringlets on a tray, ready to go into the oven, while Jemusa Tekiss was energetically kneading the rye dough, a task that she never trusted to anyone else. “Just leave them by the sink,” she called to Kale, “I’ve sent the dishwashers out to get me more butter.” 

Kale raised an eyebrow ridge. “Did you really need to send both of them?” He asked. 

“Well, it was either that or strangle them. You know how jittery those Norselander kids get when there’s no work for them to do. But no one cleans dishes quite like a Norselander, so they’re worth their weight in,” she paused, trying to decide what substance would do them justice, “butter. They’re worth their weight in butter, those two.” 

Kale smiled. To be worth your weight in butter was high praise coming from Jemusa, whose pastries were deservedly famous among the cognoscenti of Bookholm. While there were many popular coffee shops in town, those who appreciated a pastry as much as they appreciated a well turned phrase knew to eat at The Orm. Jemusa’s liberal use of butter was just one of her better known techniques. Other secrets, like the exact blend of spices she stirred into the apple sauce for her booklings, were as well guarded as an antiquarian bookseller’s entrance to the catacombs. Even her second in command was ushered out of the kitchen on the days when she restocked the spice jar, although she had promised to leave the recipe to him in her will. 

Regardless of whether they believed in it or not, everyone in Zamonia was familiar with the idea of the Orm, that otherworldly inspirational force which guided authors to produce their most brilliant work. Kale often thought that if there was the equilavent of an Orm for food, then Jemusa certainly possessed it, and it was fitting that she worked in the café with that name. Her culinary creations were as creative and as spiritually satisfying as the works of the great authors. As a youth, she had travelled to Florinth, where she had been apprenticed to some of that city’s famed pasty chefs. Even there, she had shown a flair for inventiveness which had made her stand apart from those who were merely proficient in the technical aspects of the art. When she completed her training, she could have taken her pick of Florinthian bakehouses to work in, but instead she had returned home to Bookholm, where she was immediately hired by the owners of The Orm.

Kale sometimes wished that more of the townsfolk and tourists appreciated their food as much they appreciated literature, but many seemed happy to stuff their mouths with whatever was available, as long as it didn’t get in the way of their reading. He knew that he, too, was not immune from the allure of a good story. But as he got older, he preferred to make sure he had assembled an assortment of tasty tidbits and miniscule munchables before he sat down with the latest Artt Cryptether, or perhaps some more substantial fare when re-reading a weighty classic by Elo Slooty or Hornac de Bloaze, or maybe a plate of cold cuts and cucumber sandwiches when reading travel guides by Yodler van Hinnen or Snolly Ribb. 

Jemusa finished her kneading and shaped the loaves on trays, then, stretching, placed them on the high shelf above the oven to rise. Her movement shook Kale from his reverie, and he gazed admiringly as her corpulent flesh settled into its usual pillowy folds. Jemusa gracefully made her way over to the sink where he was standing. “Still quiet out there?” she asks, as she washed her hands in the sink. 

“For now,” Kale replied. “The Live Newspapers will be in soon for coffee and bite to eat before they go and pick up the early editions from the presses. After that it’ll be quiet for an hour or two, until the breakfast crowd start trickling in around 7am[[1]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1088340#work_endnotes).” 

Jemusa looked pensive. “The first batch of booklings are ready, and those poet’s ringlets will be done in fifteen minutes, there’s fresh Binngrow buns, Climelth cookies, and Clarebeau croissants, there are berry tartlets, hazelnut swirls, and cinnamon donuts, today’s muffins are banana with chocolate chips, pear with nutmeg, and there’s oat-bran with prunes for those worried about their regularity,” she paused, “The rye loaves for the bee bread will need at least an hour. Do you think that’s enough to get started?”

Kale smiled and gave an only-slightly-mocking bow. “You have outdone yourself, yet again,” he replied. “I’ll take out the buns, the cookies, and the tartlets. Leave the rest in on the warming racks until we start getting some orders.” The apprentice bakers, who had been listening to every word, started transferring pastries onto serving trays, and followed him back out into the café. 

Nayina nodded to them, and stashed her book beneath the counter. “I’ve made a pot of coffee for the kitchen, the cappuccino is for Jemusa,” she said as she indicated a tray which held those items with an incline of her head. 

“Any customers?” Kale asked, more out of politeness than curiosity. 

“Only those five,” this time she inclined her head towards the slumbering poets, the nocturnomath, and the demidwarf, “and they’re no trouble.”

“Well, you can probably manage another chapter before the Living Newspaper crowd arrive.”

“Thanks boss. But I might give the coffee machine a clean first. I can always read in between the Newspapers and 7am.” As she spoke, Nayina started pulling the various cogs and plugs from the coffee machine, and dropping them into a small buckets of hot water, into which she sprinkled a tablespoon of powder. “Besides,” she added, “the story is at a slow bit, so better to stop now.” 

Kale grunted in agreement, and taking a tray, went out to the floor to remove the glass jars containing candles from the center of every empty table. Most of the candles had already gone out, but there were one or two still alight, casting a guttering light in a small radius on the table tops. These he pinched with a moistened thumb and forefinger, before adding their jars to his collection. 

Once he had returned the jars to their cupboard, he filled a jug with cold spring-water, and tossed in a few transparent slices of cucumber and a sprig of mint, which he took to the table where the lone dwarf was still reciting the Crabwise poem. “On the house,” said Kale, knowing full well that they never charged for water at The Orm. “They say that cucumber is good for the vocal cords,” he added. The young demidwarf started to thank him, but Kale made a shushing noise, and returned to the counter where Nayina was reassembling the coffee machine. 

“You’re a good man,” she told him, too quietly for the demidwarf to hear. 

“Well don’t go telling anyone,” he murmured, “or they’ll all start expecting hand outs.” 

“And who knows,” she said with a cynical smile, “he might be a Master Reader when he grows up, and he’ll remember the people who were kind to him.”

“You’ve been reading too many political thrillers,” Kale admonished, “it’s giving you a warped view of the world.”

With a thunk, Nayina clicked the last cog back into place, just seconds before the door was pushed open to admit seven of Living Newspapers. The morning edition had not come out yet, so the dwarfs were all dressed in street clothes, though as a rule they tended to favour black and grey, so the inevitable smudges of printers ink did not show up when they sold out. They huddled together for a moment, before one broke away from the group and approached Kale. 

“We’ll take six black coffees to go, one cinnamon hot chocolate, and give us seven Binngrow buns, in individual paper bags, please.” 

“That’ll be four and half pyras,” replied Kale, as he started bagging their buns. Nayina was already filling their paper cups[[2]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1088340#work_endnotes) with fresh coffee. The dwarves went back into their huddle, and when they broke apart the spokes-dwarf was holding out the exact change. “Thanks very much,” he said as Kale passed him a coffee and a bagged bun, which he, in turn, passed to the dwarf next to him, who passed it down the line. Finally all the dwarves were clutching their hot cups of coffee in one hand, and their bag with a bun in it in the other, except for one who was waiting for his hot chocolate. Nayina sprinkled on the cinnamon with a flourish, popped the lid on the cup, and handed it over herself. 

The Living Newspapers filed out the door, which swung shut behind them, with a jingle of the bell. Nayina pulled her stool back over to the counter and got out her book. Kale took his empty tray and went through the kitchen, dodging bakers with hot trays, out into the scullery where he opened the china cupboard and collected a couple of dozen small vases. These he filled with water, before opening the door into the courtyard where the florist had already left a large bunch of white daisies, sitting in the old trough. With a practiced eye and deft hand, Kale divided up the flowers between the vases, snipping an over long stem with his sharp claws. Then he went back through the kitchen, nodding amiably to whomever caught his eye, and back out to the floor, where he placed each vase in the center of each table. 

He had just finished when the door jingled open again to admit two more Living Newspapers, still without their layers of newsprint. “Two coffees please,” the first through the door called out. Nayina was back at her machine in an instant, while Kale took the change from the second dwarf's upstretched hand. “Running late?” he asked. 

“Yes, sorry, can't stay and chat,” replied the dwarf who was ready to grab the coffees as soon as Nayina turned around to put them on the counter. “Thanks,” both dwarves exclaimed in unison as they bundled each other out the door.

“Was that all of them?” Nayina asked.

“Only nine so far, but any others might be running too late to get any coffee before the Newspapers are ready to get wrapped up for the day,” Kale replied. “Once they're wrapped they might send over a young dwarf to fetch more coffees, but they don't usually come in again themselves until they've sold the morning edition.”

“Hmm.” Said Nayina, who was already reading again.

Kale was tempted to get out his own book, as it would be at least another hour before the breakfast crowd started trickling in, and before that the morning shift would arrive to relieve him and Nayina from their duty. Before he could make up his mind, however, there came from the couch a loud and protracted yawn. It wasn't just loud, it was operatic. It was the sort of barbaric yawn that should have sounded from the rooftops, and not from inside the spacious yet cosy confines of the Orm Café. 

The poet was awake. 

Kale blinked in amusement as the poet stretched and yawned again, his molars fully visible for all to see. This poet, Dylan Oba, had a full head of white hair that stuck out in all directions, and a tangled beard, also white, that hung down in front of his barrel of a chest. Oba was originally from Moomieville, but he had come to Bookholm many years ago, and was well known for his enthusiastic eulogies to nature. Unusually for Bookholm, he had not yet been published, preferring, he claimed, to perform his poems himself, reciting his works from memory, not trusting anyone else to give them the correct emphasis. However, Kale knew, some of his fans had surreptitiously started to transcribe his performances, for Oba was getting old, and they wanted to preserve his words for posterity. 

The lack of published works meant that Oba was something of a black sheep as far as the Bookholm book trade was concerned, and there were rumours that some of the more cut throat publishing houses had placed a price on his head, a price that would only be paid on delivery of both his head and his notebooks. Oba himself dismissed such rumours with a wave of his hand, although this caused some of the more cynical Bookholmians to surmise that he had started the rumours himself.

Whatever the truth was, Oba was something of a fixture in the poetry reading scene. He could have been a Master Reader, his voice was so deep and his manner so expressive. Other, equally cynical, Bookholmians speculated that the reason he would not submit his poems for publiication was because without his voice, and indeed, his very presence, the poems would be revealed to be flat and dull, and would never find a publisher. Kale was, on the whole, sympathetic to cynics, but in Oba's case he reserved judgment. It was undeniable that the poet had charisma, but he also had a genuine love of language, which came through in his poems. 

Unsurprisingly, Oba's yawning and stretching had disturbed his companions, and he was now enticing them into full wakefulness by reading them the breakfast menu in his sonorous voice. 

“Fresh booklings, straight from the oven,” he intoned. “Poet's ringlets, berry tarlets, hazelnut swirls, an assortment of muffins, made fresh daily,” he chanted, picking up the pace. 

“Clarebeau croissants  
“Climelth cookies  
“Ci ci ci cinnnnnnnnnnamon donuts!  
Surely some of these delicacies will delight your senses,” he wheedled. 

“Binngrow buns, and bee bread,” he burbled. 

“Bee Bread!” Interrupted the shrill voice of the dwarf. “BEEEEEEEEEEEEE BREAD!” 

“Bee bread?” Oba asked, taken by surprise.

“Yes!” Exclaimed the dwarf, “We are poets, we are young, we are not afraid to live dangerously. Bee bread for breakfast.” 

“Bee Bread for Breakfast! Bee Bread for Breakfast!” Chanted the third poet, in a strong Baysvillean accent, as he struggled to sit upright. 

“Well, if you insist,” said Oba, “although not all of us are quite so young as you.” 

“Oh, come on,” the dwarf whined, “it's not like anyone ever gets stung. At least, not very often.” He signalled to Kale. “You there,” he said, imperiously, “give us three slices of your best Bee Bread, and we'd better have some coffee to wash it down.” “Certainly, sir,” replied Kale, with barely a hint of sarcasm. 

Nayina sighed and put her book away again. “No more peace and quiet for us,” she whispered as he passed her on his way to the kitchen. 

By now the kitchen was settling down after the frenzy of activity. Trays full of buns and pastries were stacked in the warming racks, and, Kale noted with relief, fresh loaves of rye were being pulled out of the ovens as he entered. 

“Your timing is impeccable,” he said as he approached Jemusa. “We need three serves of Bee Bread, and,” he lowered his voice, “if you have any of those bees with live stings left in your stash, feel free to add one to the dwarf's slice.” 

“Coming right up,” she replied, and turned to the cupboards where she kept her spices and bee honey. Kale helped himself to a bookling while he waited. A minute later, three plates with slices of Bee Bread were ready to go. “The one on the right is for your dwarf,” Jemusa whispered, as Kale picked up the tray. 

Just as Kale was about to go through the swinging doors, people from the day shift started to arrive. “Your timing couldn’t be better,” Kale told Roue Plum, the day manager, as he went out on the café floor.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. **Translators note:** Bookholm, like many cities in Zamonia, has its own unique names for the various times of day which it deems to be important. The most famous Bookholmian time of day is, of course, Timber Time, that hour in the evening when the workday is done, dinner has been eaten, and one is replete and ready to curl up by the fire with a book. Or, if one is feeling gregarious, to venture out and listen to the Master Readers recite from the latest and greatest, all while sitting in a cosy armchair, drinking cups of mulled coffee or printers ink wine.  
>  '7am' does not capture the ambience of the Bookholmian word for which there is no direct translation, but which might be somewhat cumbersomely expressed as “that time of morning when the sun is low in the sky and shines through the curtains, when we must leave our comfortable nest of blankets to face the day ahead, which we will do all the more willingly once we have had a hot cup of coffee and filled our stomachs with food which is satisfying tasty, but not too adventurous.” 
> 
> 2\. **Translators note:** It should come as no surprise that Bookholm, a city renowned for its advances in paper making, should have been the first Zamonian city to invent a paper cup that was capable of holding hot liquid without going soggy.  
>  In the early days, several unfortunate Bookholmians did sustain serious scalds from spilling hot coffee on themselves while walking with an open book in one hand and a hot beverage in the other. But eventually an ingenious Hoggling who worked in a local bookbinding firm devised a method of using bookbinders' glue and sealing wax. He designed a moulded lid that would fit over the top of a paper cup, with a small spoutlike opening from which steam could escape, and from which, more importantly, Bookholmians could drink their coffee without risk of a spill.  
> The Hoggling established his own company which made both paper cups and lids. As soon as he had cornered the paper cup market, his previous employers launched a law suit against him, claiming that the bookbinders' glue on which his patented papier maché depended was itself a trade secret, and that since leaving the bookbinding profession, he was no longer protected by the bookbinders code. The court case lasted for years. While it was finally settled in the Hoggling’s favour, by that time his patent had expired and generic coffee cup lids had flooded the market. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **Note to Recipient:** Thank you for this prompt. It was a lot of fun to think about the people who live in Bookholm. I got some of the information about Florinthian baking and pastry making from _The Alchemaster's Apprentice_. Merry Yuletide.
> 
> Thanks to [fred_mouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fred_mouse/pseuds/fred_mouse) for beta reading!


End file.
